Inside Westminster: Tales of Hubris and Betrayal No 15
by mrsordinary54
Summary: 'Red Meat' is a parody of the shenanigans of the British political 'elite'.


INSIDE WESTMINSTER: TALES OF HUBRIS AND BETRAYAL

15

RED MEAT

Life in the Knight-Johnston household was the epitomy of order: nanny was at the helm just as the good Lord was in his kingdom. This meant that Willoughby had the one precious commodity his good friend, Ptolomy Trudge-Jones lacked: clear head space to think and plan. Potty was all undirected action, like a tornado of energy leaving messy chaos in its wake. However, Potty did have the one thing Willoughby lacked: charisma.

And so together, they made a good team: each compensating for the other's fatal flaw. In the world of modern politics, Potty embodied the 'poster boy' and Willoughby was the brains. Together they'd formulated a plan to oust the current PM whose only saving grace was her dogged persistence.

And boringly, she was playing the political game with a completely straight bat: no 'sofa politics' of her predecessors which had secretly taken the whole country down routes leading to inevitable and tragic consequences. Consequences, of course, suffered not by those leaders themselves nor their families whose lives had sailed ever onwards and upwards. No, consequences for the poor average man and woman who'd served their country when asked so to do. Nor was she a 'hand-bagger' like another who'd frightened and bullied their way through the political minefield.

The PM was a thoroughly decent sort which, of course, was just not good enough. No, Potty was on the march and he firmly believed he was to be the next chosen one.

He had been quite worried about his beautiful partner in life, the gorgeous Mandy Swinton-Eagle, as she had simply vanished, neither answering his texts nor calls. But his moment of glory was upon him, so he pushed thoughts of his paramour to one side.

'She is a big girl now and can take care of herself,' was what Potty thought. And so he and Willoughby marched on, no one bothering to check on Mandy.

Mandy, on the other hand, had been forced to return home as she really had nowhere else to go. Her 'girl about town' image was built on shaky foundations as she'd neither earned enough money to be independent nor had she built up a circle of reliable friends whose sofas she could have crashed on. She'd had one 'friend' from schooldays but they'd drifted apart. Even though her sister, Tara, had built a successful life in London, Mandy simply couldn't bear to belittle herself by asking for her help. If anyone had cause to complain about Mandy's lifelong shenanigans it was Tara.

For the first time in her life she'd been forced to taste the fruits of 'humble pie'. Her parents Angelica and Geoffrey had lived a life of intolerable pressure caused by concern over their youngest daughter. She always had been a handful, politely described as 'boisterous', or 'a character' but in reality Mandy was a selfish, unkind brute with a borderline personality disorder.

The scene erupting from her return home after the debacle with Juan, was nothing short of hysterical with Angelica's screams ringing round affluent and leafy Garland Crescent. Geoffrey had actually slapped Mandy round the face, a chastisement 25 years too late to be beneficial, but which brought him a certain relief, at least.

When things calmed down later the next day, the family sat quietly round the kitchen table to try and formulate a plan for the future. Tara had appeared having been phoned by a neighbour who was concerned about the raucous commotion emanating from the Swinton-Eagle household.

Geoffrey and, to a lesser degree, Angelica knew that a practical approach had to be taken: their youngest daughter was a true horror but if she could be married off, at least she'd be someone else's nightmare. If there was a divorce, well, hopefully the duped fool would be rich, at least, so their daughter would be able to live off a divorce settlement.

Mandy had had to admit the the only candidate on the horizon was Potty.

'You mean Ptolomy Trudge-Jones?' squealed Angelica in disbelief. She'd thought Mandy had been fooling around with him, remembering the article in her monthly magazine. The reaction of her neighbours brought a flush of shame to her cheeks.

'Who spread that ghastly rumour that you were expecting?'

Mandy feigned ignorance, though she knew jolly well that it was Potty's scorned wife, Sophia Mowbray-Dick.

'Well, should we invite him over?' was Geoffrey's desperate suggestion.

'No certainly not,' said Tara, 'don't you realise what sort of person he is?'

'Well, at least he's got a job so he can take care of our girl.'

'Really! snapped Tara. 'And a wife and four children still in tow.'

Geoffrey didn't reply but in the back of his mind he felt that the two lovebirds deserved each other. Though a lifelong Party follower, he'd grown tired of the shenanigans of both sides of the British political elite: one lot naïve, 'don't do as I do, do as I say' anoraks; the other acting like aggressive 'death-eaters' in search of their next feast of red meat – preferably from a living body. Potty epitomised the latter, though thinly disguised as an affable eccentric. Mandy too was like Granny Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood: all sweetness and froth till one scraped just beneath the surface, revealing the depth of her raw anger and ambition.

Geoffrey shuddered at the thought of the union but it was getting late in the day and Mandy would soon be firmly 'left on the shelf'.

And so the Swinton-Eagles drew up a plan of action to finally 'sort out' their youngest daughter, once and for all. Little did Potty realise what the lust of his unfettered loins would cost him.

Meanwhile Potty was on a secret assignation, meeting the leader of the UK Unionist Party, Uel Fudge. Their chosen venue was rather unfortunate as members of the public dining at Mirabel's in Knightsbridge managed to take several photos of the pair 'accidently' bumping into each other at the bar – as if!

There had been a quiet admiration growing between the men and Potty had wanted to pick Uel's brain about how to whip the 'masses' up into a frenzy, just as Fudge had managed to do at the start of all the 'erotic spasm' of Brexit.

'Well old man,' Fudge counselled, 'first and foremost tell 'em what they want to hear. No one's bothered about the truth and I've always found the bigger the lie the better.'

'That's why the great British public have come to call you Fudger of the FUCKUP party,' thought Potty, though diplomatic enough – for once in his life – not to say aloud what was on his mind. No, he needed this man's help to oust the forlorn PM.

'She looks dead in the water, what with Willoughby Knight-Johnston's resignation. Do you think we'll hit the magic number?'

'Not sure about that. She keeps coming back fighting. What does that husband of hers put in her nightcap – I must start imbibing it myself!'

'Trouble is, the great unwashed are beginning to get a type of World War fever, a 'we're all in it together' attitude so her popularity's actually increasing,'

These two vain gilded peacocks of men, who were too self-involved and unaware of what the average person thought, hadn't realised that the British public had come to admire Mrs M, just as they admired the Queen. Both had a deep sense of duty and a selflessness that most strutting, shallow politicians in all parties were simply oblivious to.

'Anyway, enough of politics,' chirruped Potty, 'where on earth did your name come from?'

'Uel or Fudge?'

'Uel, of course. I've never heard of that one before. Bet you got teased at school – there's no effing Uel and all that!'

'Well actually I'm the fourth generation to bear the name. It's Celtic for 'strongman' and I'm very proud of my family's heritage.'

Potty spluttered and with that minor offence, the pair left the club, by the back door and separately, of course.


End file.
